Just a Man
by IronAmerica
Summary: Miles is his brother and his best friend. For that, Bass will move the earth to help him.


Hey, it's a new story! This is part three of the Suffer the Children 'verse. Bass is up.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Just a Man

President Sebastian Monroe of the Monroe Republic did _not_ pace.

It was undignified, and pacing was for lesser people. That he was said, he was just making sure the hall was secure. He had guards who could do the job for him—who _would_, if he asked them too—but there was nothing like the personal touch to make him feel more…_secure_. There could be _no_ surprises today. If there were surprises, he would gut his security team personally.

Pacing was for peasants.

He was just…being cautious.

Three months ago, almost to the day, Miles had received a journal from Captain Neville, who'd been exiled to the far reaches of the republic for his son's mistake. The then-lieutenant Neville had felt his wife was more important than his son, and had begged the president and his commanding general for leniency. That was what had gotten him exiled to Chicago two years ago, and his son sent to a labor camp. In a way, though, the entire matter had been providence. If Neville hadn't been more concerned about his wife, darling, deceitful Julia, Miles would have spent the rest of his life believing he'd failed his brother and the kids.

Catharsis had been five years too long in coming. It was verging on six years now, but Bass decided that catharsis had come already. The president sighed and flopped down one of the more comfortable couches in his private receiving room, trying hard not to fidget. He didn't fidget. It was undignified for a president.

The cause of his current case of nerves was four hours outside the city—almost six hours from the heart of the Monroe Republic in Independence Hall. Bass had read the journal Captain Neville had sent—the one that described the injuries Charlie and Danny had suffered in excruciatingly painful, graphic details—every night. Well, his copy, anyways. The original was in a vault, along with other sensitive documents and the Republic's stash of blackmail material. He'd kept copies available in case any dissident factions within the Republic—or elsewhere, given the noises Georgia had been making lately—wanted to argue against Miles' wrath being rained down on a village in the wilds. Bass didn't know anyone heartless enough to think that two children deserved the torture they'd gone through.

Since Miles had left, Bass had read and reread the journal, trying to imagine what his pseudo-niece and nephew would be like. Would they be feral, or would they be just as sweet and cheerful as they had been before the blackout? (He wasn't really counting on the latter, but hope sprang eternal.) Would either of them remember him? Would Charlie still want to be a Marine like her favorite uncles, or would she be too shy to leave the rooms Bass had set aside for her and Danny? What would Danny be like, with no memories of the pre-blackout world to hold him through the darker parts of his life?

The only truth Bass knew for certain, though, was that both of the kids would be incredibly damaged. Miles would have done his best to fix them since rescuing them, but he wasn't trained for that. He was just their uncle—albeit the uncle who cared very deeply about them. Bass wished he had access to trained professionals, or at least former social workers.

Well…

Alright, he _did_ have _one_ trained medical professional, but Doctor Foster wasn't a shrink. She was a licensed doctor who specialized in emergency medicine. That was great, especially when Miles was intelligent enough to take a doctor with him on campaign, but it wasn't exactly going to help his niece and nephew. Not unless they lost a limb or something upon entering the city, of course…

Bass shook away the macabre thought and stood up to head for the sideboard. He'd just get something to drink—non-alcoholic, because he didn't want to frighten Charlie and Danny away by smelling like an alcoholic—and nurse that while he waited. Hourly updates were coming in from the couriers on Miles' progress. Bass appreciated that, but it was just making him more and more nervous as the minutes dragged on.

He half-wondered what stories the kids had heard about him and Miles, out there in the piddling little village they'd lived in. Was he a monster who ate children? Was Miles the devil, who flayed the skin off his victims to make clothing for himself? (That rumor had been particularly amusing, in some regards. Well, Miles had thought it was amusing. But either way, it had probably frightened the Matheson siblings out of their wits, so he'd have to take steps to ensure they never heard it—or heard it again, if they'd already heard it.)

The president began pacing again, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. His drink was still on the sideboard, forgotten for the moment. He should have gotten them toys, or at least presents. They were small children. They'd like toys. Well, alright, they weren't _that_ small, but… Damn. He should have thought to get them something. He'd been so absorbed in getting rooms ready for them that he'd completely forgotten about the greater trappings of childhood that should have been included.

Bass could just hear the wives of Julia Neville's evil little club laughing at him.

It was not a pleasant feeling.

Of course, he'd at least gotten them comfortable rooms. That was enough. He could worry about toys and other amusements tomorrow. Or the day after. Bass knew enough to know that dumping too much on the siblings would hurt them in the long run. Overstimulate them, and they'd shut down. Bass didn't want that. It would have been bad, and Miles would probably kill him for it. (He always was a bit odd where family was concerned. Except for, in the ten days after receiving that journal, to his sister-in-law, Rachel. Bass couldn't blame him for that.)

Rachel was going to be another problem, of course. She'd complained mightily when Bass had moved her out of Independence Hall and to another house in the city. He'd had all of her things removed too, so that was enough to stop the worst of her complaints. Bass wondered, not for the first time, just what had possessed him and Miles to take Rachel with them that year. Or, for that matter, why they hadn't insisted she bring Ben and the kids—or at least just the kids—with her. If her story about the children being ill had been the truth, Miles would have pulled out all the stops to help them. Bass would have too. Miles was his brother in all but blood, and that meant that Charlie and Danny were his niece and nephew, in name if not in fact.

But…

Well, it was too far gone for him to ruminate over the bygones. He couldn't turn back time to prevent the accident that must have befallen Ben, or prevent the torture of the children. All he could do was help Miles repair the worst of the damage and make up for lost time.

Time was going far too slowly for his tastes. Bass wished, not for the first time, that he could make time go faster. He couldn't wait to meet Charlie and Danny, again. Miles must have spoiled them rotten on the trip back. Lost in his fantasy of Miles magically healing years of damage in the space of a few weeks, Bass didn't notice the door opening to admit one of the guards.

"General Matheson and guests have arrived, sir," the young soldier said quietly, saluting respectfully. Bass shot up out of his seat like a rocket, hurridley smoothing any wrinkles—real or imaginary—out of his uniform.

"Send them in," he barked. The soldier scurried out of the room, going to retrieve Miles and his niece and nephew.

Bass settled for leaning as casually as he could against the sideboard. Miles strode through the door, dressed rather casually. He had a dark shirt, jeans, and mid-thigh length leather boots on. A small boy was balanced on his hip, and a girl who was only slightly larger than the boy was clinging to Miles' hand.

The president of the Monroe Republic felt his heart break just a little. Miles looked like he hadn't slept in a few weeks. Not surprising, of course, given that he tended to drive himself rather hard when he felt he'd made a mistake. The two children with him, though…

They were the most heartbreaking sight in the little trio.

Danny was, of course, clinging to Miles' side like a spider monkey, face buried in his uncle's shoulder. He was dressed in clothing appropriate to a Pennsylvania fall. It was a bit worn-looking, but still well-cared for. The boy was still obviously painfully thin, although Bass thought he could see the signs of being well-fed on the return journey by a doting uncle. He smiled as he caught Danny peeking out at him and gave the boy a little wave. He was rewarded with a shy smile.

That done, Bass turned his attention to Charlie. She was wearing a simple peach-colored dress that reached down to her ankles, incongruously paired with worn brown boots with frayed laces. Her hair was tied back out of her face with a strip of brown fabric that looked like it had been torn off of a blanket. She showed signs of having had a recent scrubbing, much like her younger brother. Her blue eyes were wide, and Bass had to smile at the look of wonder on her face. She really did remind him of his little sisters…

He smiled and walked over to them, kneeling down so he was just below eye-level with Charlie.

"Hello Charlie," Bass said gently. "I'm your Uncle Bass."

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Is Bass going to be an awesome uncle? Drop a line and let me know!


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